Harry Potter and the Refugees of Time
by Rico Perrien
Summary: This is an orphan plot bunny that would not let me go. At this time I have no idea where the story is to going to go, so if you would like to take it on, please do.


Harry Potter and the Refugees of Time

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything to the Harry Potter franchises or empire, not do I own anything of the Russian empire, although we do have a replicate Faberge egg. No money being made, no claims of ownership, nothing

**Rating:** K

**Synopsis:** AU, Post-Hogwarts. No shipping

August 17, 2018

The call came to the office about 2:30 in the afternoon. It was expected. Luna had called earlier in the day that there had been a great disturbance in the force about a month before, and a further shaking of the fabric of space and time that morning when she came to the office (for years, I had wondered why we ever allowed the girl to watch those movies) and that something big was about to happen.

Working in the Ministry's Bureau of Exceptional Weirdness (sort of a joint operation between the DMLE, and Department of Mysteries, and the Muggle secret services, and the perfect job for Luna Lovegood, as was), I had gotten used to this sort of thing. After all, that was what has passed for 'normal' all my life. As the guy who finally put down Voldemort, and seemed to have few other marketable skills, I had ended up in the Hit Wizard branch of the DMLE with permission to use lethal spells at my discretion. This of course put me in line for some interesting intermural cooperation projects.

I had tried the domestic life for a couple years after school with all its battle and threats to my life. I found that it was incredibly boring, after an early life filled with trolls and basilisks, and vicious relatives, and all. I guess I was addicted to the excitement, and yes, the violence. It was something I was good at. And I got better at it over time.

The meeting was held in a large conference room in one of the anonymous government buildings that dot greater London, each more nondescript (less descript?) than the next. Although it was a bright sunny day, one could not help feeling that this was another of the shadowy 'things' that seem to occupy most of my life.

I entered the room, and a chill went down my spine. However, the threat was more bureaucratic than anything else, so I refrained from pulling my wand and stunning the occupants; as three of people were my bosses, in various ways, this was wise. Luna at the BEW may sign my cheque, but Sir Ralph O'Rourke of MI5 and the middle-aged lady only known as 'C' who was the head of MI6 (or 6, or SIS or whatever they were calling it that week – bureaucrats have a habit of 'fixing' things that don't need fixing while neglecting things that do, so they can look like they are doing something while not investing the time, energy or political capital to actual make any real changes) had the authority, if not the capacity, to have me killed.

As I entered the room, 'C' turned and said, "Ah, agent double-oh-nine-and-three-quarters has arrived." I smiled at her and answered (as I had for several years), "Ma'am, that joke was old when your predecessor held the office. However, good morning." Looking around the room, I greeted them all. Sitting with C were three of her other double-oh licensed agents. This worried me. I know that for double-oh agents, your retirement party tends to be more along the line of a memorial service.

Among the other people in the room was my old friend Hermione Granger, who was now appointed Her Majesty's Royal Witch. Being muggle-borne, and like me, muggle-raised, Lady Hermione was invaluable to the Court of St James in dealing with both Her Majesty's magical and mundane subjects. Indicating additional Palace interest in the meeting were a couple of the 'grey men' of Palace security and their boss, Sir Bill something-or-other (I keep forgetting his name, and he seems to like it that way - even though I am one, of sorts, spooks make me uncomfortable. Too Slytherin for my tastes. He might even have some sort of notice-me-not charm applied to his name like Voldemort had – I wouldn't put it past him).

My old acquaintance Kingsley Shacklebolt was there too as Head of the DMLE, as was Minister Diggory.

The Home Secretary (muggle, or mundane if you prefer, which I do) and the Foreign Secretary (same comment) were also in attendance, as were what appeared to be a rather downcast family. This last group consisted of a middle-aged bearded man and what I took to be his wife, four young women and a younger rather sickly boy, which I assumed to be their children.

Whatever this meeting was about, it was fairly obviously IMPORTANT.

The Foreign Secretary stood and turned to address the bearded man. As he started to address the man, the latter held up his hand to stop him, shaking his head. Evidently, he did not want his identity revealed, at least not yet.

The FS nodded, and said, "I understand, Sir. Very well. Sir, this is Lord Harry Potter, Head of the Ancient and Noble Houses of Potter and Black, holder of the Order of Merlin First Class, and many other honours."

The man chuckled lightly. "Lord Potter, from what I have heard of you from your friend Lady Hermione, and from my distant cousin who has kindly been providing lodging and sustenance for my family and myself this last month, you hold your titles rather lightly."

I decided I liked this fellow, at least to the extent that he seemed unimpressed by the decorations and honours which had been ceremoniously and unceremoniously dumped on me over time. "Yes sir. I have often found that those most vigorously claiming such titles are seldom very noble, and in many cases, are just using them to rub your nose in how inferior you must be compared to their own inflated sense of self-importance. If it does not offend protocol too badly, please just call me Harry."

He laughed out loud at this, and held out his hand to be shaken. This unexpected gesture also shook the others in the room (the 'grey men' practically invented the word 'stuffy'). His wife, who had been looking rather dejected, smiled under sad eyes at her husband's laughter.

The eldest of the young women stood and shook her head at the man. "Bozhe moi, Papa. If these people and this man are to help us, we have to put aside this pointless dancing around the facts of the issue!" Turning to me, she said politely, "Lord Potter. Harry. My name is Olga Nicholaievna Romanova. My father is Nicholai Alexandrovich Romanov, formerly the Tsar of All the Russias. My mother, and my sisters and brother are in need of assistance, and we are told that you can be of help to us. If it is not what you English would call a terrible pun, I would say we are in grave need of help."

In shock, I blurted out, "But you're all dead!"

Olga smiled, and said, "See, I did say it was a bad pun."

The youngest of the sisters laughed aloud. Smiling she said, "Yes, I have heard that story too. I believe it was the American Mark Twain who said 'The rumours of my death are greatly exaggerated'. So it is with us. By the bye, I am called Anastasia, or Ana, or various rude names by my little brother here. Since coming here, I have wondered about using the name 'Stacey'."

I smiled at her, and bowed my head towards her. "Your highness, I am glad that I stand corrected." Some laughed, while others smiled quietly. "Please excuse my impertinence, but how…?"

The Tsarina smile sadly. "Lord Potter, excuse me, but I was not raised to be comfortable with familiarity on such short acquaintance. Perhaps in the future. However, you may have heard about our family's friendship and our great debt to the Siberian mystic, Father Grigori. He provided great service to ourselves personally, and in my opinion to the empire, by miraculously curing our son of his bleeding, on many occasions. Of course, for political reasons, we could not reveal Alexei's condition to the nation, and so vile rumours spread as to his actual relationship with us, and particularly with me. He was called by a most unpleasant epithet."

"Before he was foully murdered, Father Grigori said that, should he be killed, our family and our country would also fall. He presented each of us with a small talisman, which he had arranged to have made by the Imperial Jeweler, Fabergé. Each was a small gold capsule, that he said contained a piece of Noah's Ark that he discovered during his many pilgrimages in his youth, and told us that it would protect us from what he called 'the coming flood'. He imbedded each small item into our forearms, here." She pulled he sleeve up, and a small bump could be seen.

"He said that, this way, it could never be taken from us. Unfortunately, we were unable to provide the same for our loyal servants, as he had been assassinated before they began to work for us."

"Father Grigori told us that, if we were ever in mortal danger, the talismans would protect us by transporting us out of immediate danger. He could not say how or where we would be after this miracle, just that we would be safe. Well, I do not know how to describe the event, but we were imprisoned in Yekaterinberg, and were led into a small room in the house. Our captors pulled their weapons, and were about to shoot us, and suddenly we were in a room in Buckingham Palace, one hundred years to the day, in what to us was the future. Our servants did not appear with us, and I must assume they were left behind to meet their deaths."

The Tsar smiled. "I said we have been staying with a distant cousin. I don't know if it was in some way how the powers-that-be chose our destination, but we appeared in the same room as I stayed when I visited for my grandmother's funeral."

"Fortunately, your modern medicine, and particularly your St. Mungo's, have also helped Alexei a great deal, and for that we are grateful."

Olga spoke again. "Harry, when I declared who we were, I was not trying to impress you with how important we used to be. It was made quite clear to our family that our importance was past, and now our only importance seems to be that we are dead."

I staggered back to a vacant chair, and sat down heavily. "I take it you do not want this 'miracle' announced publically".

The FS was about to speak, when the Tsar shook his head. "I have discussed this for a long time with my 'cousin' Philip. It would be unwise. The former regime based much of their authority and credibility of our murders. Since their fall, there are many who, shall I say, came into the possession of state property, who would be most unhappy if there were provable prior claims. There are many in the church who wish to have us canonised as Saints and Martyrs, and would be less than pleased if their beliefs were proven to be baseless. I suspect that there are many who will wish us harm."

"And for many who are of the poor and faithful, who felt that we, as heads of the church, were God's Chosen and we were the foundation of their lives, their faith is all that sustains them in troubled times. For the very poor, many of whom we saw in our last years, times are always troubled and always have been so. For all my failings, I do love my people, and I would not want to take away their only source of spiritual sustenance and hope."

I stood again, and asked, "Your Highnesses, if I may…" reaching towards my wand, then stopping with a glance to the 'names'. When they, and C, and the FS and HS both, nodded, I drew my wand, and swept it over the bump in the Tsarina's arm. Puzzled by my findings, I looked towards the Tsar, who nodded and pulled back his sleeve. I swept over his talisman as well. There was definitely magic there but unlike any I had ever seen, and certainly the magical signature was one that was not known to me – not that I would have been expected to know the signature of a monk from Siberia who had been murdered over a hundred and two years ago.

I looked around the room, at all the important people, who were looking at me the way people looked at me many times in my life. I was the one they trusted to rid them of Voldemort. Just as then, I had no idea what I was getting into.

I nodded and asked, "So, may I ask? Why am I here, and what do you want me to do?"

The Home Secretary stood, and spoke. "Lord Potter, as far as I know, or shall I say, as far as I have been told, you are the most powerful wizard currently alive in Britain. You are one of the only wizards working with our mundane secret services, and I have been told that your security clearance is even higher than my own. Given my position, I find this last hard to believe and accept, but there it is. As to the why and what, at this point we just don't know."

"In addition, I understand that you are one of the very few wizards with a cordial relationship with the goblins at Gringott's". At my apparently puzzled expression, he added, "I gather that they have indisputable means of identifying persons and verifying inheritance eligibilities."

"As you can imagine, the situation is somewhat unprecedented. However, there are forces at work who may endanger our 'guests'", (you could just hear the air quotes in his voice) "so we thought it best to bring all our assets up to speed right from the start. Until we can assess the situation, as the Americans would say, we should have our big guns ready."

I had the feeling that this can of worms, that had just been opened in front of my eyes, would require a rather large barrel to contain. Can of worms, blank cheque that my bosses had just signed, whatever metaphor you want, my life was about to get very interesting. And I remembered that old pseudo-Chinese curse 'May you live in interesting times'.

Author's Notes:

For many years, it was rumoured that Grand Duchess Anastasia had escaped the murder of her family by the secret police of the Bolsheviks during the second Russian revolution. This was conclusively disproved when her remains were found in 2007 and this was confirmed by DNA analysis.

Grigori Rasputin (the surname means 'debaucher', according to some sources) was a mystic healer, who gained great influence and loyalty from the Imperial family, due to his ability to cure, or at least alleviate the hemophilia of the Crown Prince (Tsarovitch) Alexei. As it was unacceptable to let the public know that the crown prince had this potentially fatal disease, Rasputin's role in the imperial court was kept secret, which of course lead to rumours. Because of his influence, he also gained great (and unwarranted) political influence. He did predict that, if he was killed, that the Russian empire would end. He was assassinated in 1916.

The royal strain of hemophilia is itself interesting, which is carried by the female line, but generally manifests itself only in the male line. There was no record of the disease in either the ancestry of Queen Vitoria or Prince Albert, but many of their descendants had the ailment. Whether this is due to the improvement in medial treatment during Victoria's reign (leading to a decrease in infant mortality which would have masked the problem), or whether there was any truth to the rumour that Victoria was illegitimate and so her 'real' father brought the disease into the royal family, is an interesting question.


End file.
